


Mio Fantasma

by OndineInSpace



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Angsty Erik, Drama & Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Heartbreak, Historical, Historical References, Italian, Monica Bellucci - Freeform, Mutual Pining, New Love Interest, New love, Original Character(s), POV Third Person, Ramin Karimloo - Freeform, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Venice, angsty love, opera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 04:24:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12268836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OndineInSpace/pseuds/OndineInSpace
Summary: After the events that led to his fleeing Paris, Erik (the Phantom) has found a tentative new home in Venice. But one night, he hears a voice unlike anything he's ever heard, that leads him to a woman that will change everything.





	Mio Fantasma

The man in black skirted the Campo Santa Maria Formosa. There was a festival tonight, as there often was. The sounds of merriment and dancing echoed off the city’s pale walls as townsfolk hurried to towards the bright torches. They were dressed in brilliant brocades and velvets, ornate masks covering their features. The man in black wore a mask too – simple and white, obscuring only half his face. 

For half a year the phantom had lived in Venice. After fleeing Paris with what remained of his savings he had headed to the only place that made sense to him. Here, both opera and wearing masks were commonplace, and he’d wanted to take advantage. For the first time in his life, he didn’t fear walking the streets (still only at night, though). While the Italians were a rougher people than the French, the few he had interacted with were somehow… more accepting, than any Parisians had ever been. 

As the streets began to get too crowded for comfort he slipped down one alley, then another. He’d learned the city well in his wanderings since he’d arrived. He enjoyed the serpentine style of the streets and canals, exploring both in the dark; he preferred these waterways to the wide, stately Seine. As he walked over one of the city’s many bridges he stopped cold. He froze, shutting his eyes, face contorting in pain. 

He could hear her again. 

He knew it was in his head. For years, and now for the last six months, she had always been in his head. Would he never be free of Christine’s torment? Even now he could hear her song, almost real. But-  
Wait. He knew Christine’s voice. This was not his angel. No, this voice… it was different. 

He hurried down the dark street, his cloak streaming behind him, as he followed the song like a starving man to bread. He stopped in front of an old theater. It was about twenty years past its prime. Peeling posters announcing a performance of Don Giovanni from decades ago covered its front marquee, while the once-grand oak front doors were warped and discolored. He hurried up the dirty marble steps and found the entrance unlocked. He slipped in, pushing moth-eaten curtains out of his way in the darkness until he stumbled to the auditorium.

A woman stood in the center of the wooden stage, haloed by several candles behind her. She was dressed in crushed blue velvet, and her long dark hair was swept up in a loose chignon. It was her singing. He stepped back, hoping she hadn’t seen him. 

It took him a moment to place the aria. It was “Dido’s Lament,” from an opera rarely performed anymore. The woman’s voice wasn’t perfect – far from it, he thought. But, there was something there, something even Christine couldn’t have captured. A depth of sadness and anger that only years of heartache could bring. The woman sang out to the empty house, her mature soprano ringing defiantly through the ghosts of the abandoned theater. Erik’s heart thudded in his chest as he watched from the shadows. He couldn’t look away. He’d never heard anything like her. Her rich voice washed over him, full of longing and pain. Finally the aria stopped, and the soprano rested her hand on her stomach, breathing deeply. Erik wanted to move, to flee before he was found out, but he stood as if frozen. Finally, after long moments, he moved to slip out, when-

“Who are you?”

Her speaking voice wasn’t what he had expected. Deep and throaty, with a commanding tone that dared him to ignore her. She took up one of her candles and held it towards him to see him better. He shrank from the light. But he could see her; she looked close to his age, but with few lines around her full lips and big, dark eyes. His heart pounded faster in his chest. It was the first time someone had seen him before he had revealed himself.

“Forgive me” he said from the dark alcove. “I didn’t mean to disturb you… I know the value of privacy.”  
“Then why did you?” she asked angrily.  
He was taken aback. “I… I heard your voice from across the canal. I… taught opera, once upon a time. I’ve never heard a voice like yours.”  
She smiled ruefully. “You’re the first to hear me sing in ten years, did you know?”  
“I’m not surprised, you sounded unpracticed.”  
She let out a barking laugh. “You’re truthful. I appreciate that. I was good, once. The best. The primadonna of Venice.” She looked away from him, as if looking into the past. “But no more, eh? I got old, I suppose.” She paused for a long moment. “I should be angry with you that you were spying on me, you know. What is your name, Frenchman?”

He remained silent. She raised her dark brow. “Fair enough. I shan’t tell you my name either. Not yet.” She came to the edge of the stage and sat down on the dusty boards. She patted the space next to her, and produced a bottle of wine from behind the curtain. “Come, nameless friend. Come drink with me and tell me again how badly I sing.” She laughed her throaty laugh again, pouring blood-red wine into a painted gold goblet, obviously a prop from the theater’s past. She held it out to him, beckoning him to her. Erik already felt intoxicated by this strange woman, but he stepped forward down the carpeted aisle, slowly, as if in a dream.

**Author's Note:**

> _My headcanons for these two are Ramin Karimloo (he will always be my Phantom) and Monica Bellucci, but I would love to hear who you imagine!_


End file.
